


Under Her Spell

by darnedchild



Series: Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2016 [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Potter!Lock, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly Appreciation Week, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2016, Warstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 19:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6207031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darnedchild/pseuds/darnedchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2016 - Day Four (Non-Canon/ Head Canons - AUs and Crossovers). My first Potter!Lock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Her Spell

**Author's Note:**

> The Baker Street Wiki lists Molly’s birth year as 1979, which is the same year Hermione Granger was born. In my head (at least) Sherlock is a year or two older than Molly, John two to four years older than Sherlock, and Mary somewhere in between John and Molly. Therefore, at the time of the Final Battle, if I assume Molly was born prior to September 1st, she’s fresh out of Hogwarts.

Chaos. Pure chaos.

If there had been a plan, Sherlock suspected it had gone to hell at this point.

He ducked as another spell whizzed past, close enough that he could feel an unpleasant tingle from its wake. He quickly looked back to make sure it had missed John as well. His friend was still safe, although the poor man he was bent over had seen far better days. Sherlock returned his attention to the mess in front of him, two thoughts paramount in his mind.

Protect John Watson since he insisted on stopping to stabilize any injured Order member, Auror, or student they came across; and find Molly Hooper in one piece so Sherlock could shake some sense into her for daring to run off without him as soon as they made it into the castle.

The last thing he’d seen of her as she’d darted off down a lower staircase that had come to a grinding halt for the final time was that bouncing chestnut ponytail he’d often longed to touch (but had never dared). 

If they all made it out of this place, he vowed he was going to pull that hair tie free and run his hands through all of that glorious hair before he . . .

Yet another spell hit the wall just behind him, shattering a castle stone on impact. It would have been fatal if the caster hadn’t been so incompetent with his aim. Sherlock sharply whipped his wand toward the idiot in a silver mask and let loose with an Entrail-Expelling Curse. John would be livid if he knew, but he was distracted and Sherlock was done playing nice.

This wasn’t even his fight.

He wasn’t a member of the Order, he wasn’t an Auror, he definitely did not work for the Ministry (AKA his brother). If it hadn’t been for Hit-Wizard Lestrade calling in a favor and John’s involvement with the Order, Sherlock wouldn’t even be at Hogwarts right then.

Of course, his fate had been sealed the moment Molly showed up at the Hog’s Head Inn, still wearing her lime green robes with the fuchsia trim that signified a Healer-in-Training at St. Mungo’s, ready to scurry through the tunnel to Hogwarts toward danger and possible death.

They hadn’t been in the same House or year during school. He’d seen her during meals and in the halls and library from time to time; but there hadn’t been much call for a standoffish Ravenclaw and a younger, cheerful Hufflepuff to mingle. It wasn’t until she’d joined the Order after she left school (following in her dead father’s footsteps) that she entered John’s sphere of acquaintances (and thus Sherlock’s). If John had wondered why Sherlock kept showing up to meetings for an organization he purported to have zero interest in, he never said. John’s fiancée Mary had taken a liking to the young woman and soon enough the four of them had begun sharing after meeting meals and bumping into each other at St. Mungo’s. Judging from the shy, longing glances Molly gave him when she thought he wasn’t looking, she found him just as fascinating as he found her.

Speaking of Mary, the woman herself stepped out of the shadows behind another Death Eater and flourished her wand. The man (Or woman? No, definitely a man.) dropped like a stone, and Mary quickly hurried to join Sherlock in the alcove where he was still standing guard over John.

“Where’s Molly?” she asked.

Sherlock shook his head and grimaced. “She recognized some kid from her old House who was crying about a fallen wall trapping some firsties. I tried to follow her but we got separated, and then John got distracted.” He jerked his head toward John, who was finally—Finally!—finishing up.

“He’ll live,” John told them as he moved to Mary’s side. As if Sherlock particularly cared. John reached out to squeeze Mary’s hand.

Mary returned the gesture, then turned a worried eye back to the now empty corridor. “She’ll have gone down to their dormitories then.”

“I don’t know-“ Sherlock began. Seeing John and Mary together made him ache to hold Molly, even though he’d never given her any indication that he returned her interest.

“Go down to the kitchens, past the prickly pear portrait. There’s some barrels. I don’t know which one you need, but someone may hear you if you yell loud enough.” Mary pushed against his shoulder with her wand hand. “Go!”

John nodded in agreement. “We’ll follow as quickly as we can. Find Molly and the kids, before someone else does.”

All three of them paled at the thought. With one last glance at his friends to burn their images into his mind in case the worst were to happen, Sherlock ran off as fast as his long legs could carry him.

Now that he no longer had to worry about John’s wrath, Sherlock threw nasty hex after hex at anyone he didn’t recognize who dared get in his way. 

The kitchens were easy enough to find even though it had been years since he’d last visited them. The still life was there, ripped but hanging on the wall.

The barrels though . . .

Where Mary had told him to look was a smouldering hole half-filled with shards of wood and crumbled masonry (All soaked in a pool of vinegar, strangely enough.), and scraps of . . .

Sherlock felt as if he were going to vomit.

In the rubble were scraps of blood covered, lime green fabric.

“Molly.” His voice rose in desperation. “Molly!”

“Sherlock?”

He spun around so fast he nearly slipped on the loose stone fragments under his feet. There she was, covered in dirt and dust, scratches and cuts on her arms and face, cradling an injured young girl to her chest. She was battered . . . but safe.

His Molly was safe.

Two more children followed behind her as she limped closer, and he noticed the legs of her Healer’s uniform were torn.

Sherlock’s relief quickly morphed into angry concern. “Don’t you ever do that again! Do you have any idea how fucking worried I was?”

The little girl in her arms whimpered at his angry tone, and Molly clutched her tighter. “Sherlock,” Molly hissed, looking around to make sure none of Voldemort’s supporters were going to jump out of the shadows. “The children!”

“Exactly,” he hissed right back as he reached out to take the girl from her. “Think of our future children. What’s going to happen to them if you continue to insist on running off into danger on your own. I bring John along, at least.”

“I had to help the child-“ She started to defend herself, then froze as her brain finally finished processing his words. “Our what?” 

Sherlock flushed bright red and set the girl down before turning and crouching. “Up you go, on my back. Hold on tight, I’ll need my hands.” Once she was in place, he gestured in the direction of the closest staircase. “John and Mary should be headed this way.”

“Sherlock? What did you mean about ‘our future children’?” Molly was already herding the other two kids toward the stairs.

“Later. I promise.” He moved ahead, placing himself between Molly and the children and whatever danger might lay ahead of them.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and could hear the sounds of the battle still raging above. Molly reached out to take Sherlock’s free hand. Hers trembled slightly, and he couldn’t blame her. She was a Healer, not a fighter; and all this was enough to scare anyone. 

“I’m going to have to insist that you help change the nappies, you know.”

He laughed—a quick bark of sound—and looked down at her. He wasn’t sure he was in love with her yet, but he suspected he was well on his way and it was only a matter of time before he was truly under her spell.


End file.
